


You Never Forget Your First

by TwilightDeviant



Category: Forever (TV)
Genre: M/M, Offscreen character death, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-09
Updated: 2015-05-09
Packaged: 2018-03-29 19:56:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3908623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwilightDeviant/pseuds/TwilightDeviant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Henry had always known the day would come. The moment he allowed it to happen, he knew. But knowing, preparing, it never makes things easier, no matter how much time you have.</p><p>The worst part was no one else could understand. No. No, not no one. There was one someone. And no matter the bad blood between them, Henry did need that someone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Never Forget Your First

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this before the finale. Luckily I don't think canon debunked me too much. Especially if we pretend Adam does eventually die from his locked in syndrome. (An inevitability, in my opinion.) And with enough time having passed, bygones are bygones. Or just ignore the finale completely, whatever.
> 
> Also I used the pairing tag but that may have been a bit over eager. Probably closer to pre-slash really.

Distance self-imposed had stopped all sound from reaching. It quit, died out, before having come to his far away perch. But he had seen and he had watched. The grounds were so crowded only an hour ago, and that, he thought, was a good thing.

Henry stood alone. There was no other way. He could only approach once all others had poured their grieving souls to that day's fulfillment of emptiness. He stood and he looked, looked down.

The air was crisp in New York’s February. The ground was hard. Its grass was stiff. Even in the midday sun there was a crunching sound when one walked upon it. For that reason, he felt no surprise towards his guest.

Henry did not move. He did not look. He knew who was beside him. There was that electric twinge up his spine that spread and made his hair stand on end, instinctual fear. He said nothing and the silence was returned respectfully until the moment it was broken.

“You’ve been crying,” Adam said. That much was obvious from Henry’s eyes, so red, so bloodshot from tyrannous abuse. But Adam was not even looking at him to observe such a thing. He simply knew. “You should be drinking.”

Henry did not speak for a long while. He searched for the nerve. Yes, the nerve to spill his anger. The comment made his blood boil. “I don’t often drink,” he said at last. It was a level statement indifferently spoken, but he said it through tightly clenched teeth that he would not allow civility to part. “And certainly not to forget my—” He shook his head frantically and pressed a tight fist to his mouth, covering a slew of sobs that would not be muffled any further than whimpers. “My…” He could not say it. How tortuous the idea already was.

“Your son,” Adam finished for him.

A calm hand touched the small of his back. It was an almost unnoticeable presence, featherlight against a thick wool coat and every other layer above bare skin.

“You really have been drinking wrong if you think it’s only to cloud and forget.” The hand pressed just a little harder. It did not force. More it was a request, a plea that Henry allow him to take the lead for only a little while. “You don’t need to go back to the antique store today,” Adam advised. “And I have a _very_ old bottle of scotch.”

It was positively reckless that he followed Adam back to his condo. But then, as the man made sure to joke along the way, what was the worst he could do, kill him?

Adam’s residence looked exactly as might have been imagined. The walls were painted red and ornate sconces dimly lit them with angled light. The decor was cluttered and yet still minimalistic through precise organization. Henry studied one of the many black shelves and its treasures.

“You have such lovely antiques,” he said.

Adam chuckled as he hung his coat by the door. “No, Henry, your possessions are antiques. For mine, I believe the term ‘relic’ is more apropos.”

They stood in the entryway. For over twenty years they had known each other, with correspondence dwindling more often than not, per Henry’s insistence. Never had they been in a room together for more than five minutes.

“I believe there was the promise of a drink?” Henry said after clearing his throat.

Adam nodded his head, stirred from reverie, forgetting perhaps that for Henry time still passed just a little bit quicker. The man helped him out of his coat and scarf— a task he was more than capable of accomplishing my himself— and placed them on the hook beside his own.

They adjourned to the parlor, a room decorated in similar fashion to the hall.

The first drink was quiet. The second was accompanied only by the preluding percussion of Henry tapping the rim of his glass for more. There was no third. He did not ask. He was not ready for it yet.

“It was a very nice service.”

“Don’t,” Henry warned.

“I only went because I knew you couldn’t,” Adam explained sympathetically. “Abraham was well loved with many eulogies. I memorized them all in case you wanted to hear.”

“There were too many people,” Henry said, excusing his actions. It was unnecessary. Adam, only Adam, understood. But then perhaps he was justifying it to himself. “Abe’s childhood friends. Jo from the NYPD, she’d have recognized me for sure.”

“I remember the days you used to play policeman,” Adam said. "Then one comment about how good you looked to be nearing fifty and," he clicked his tongue and made a flitting hand movement. Henry had ran, of course, ran and not returned until two weeks ago when Abe had called him.

“Why do you enjoy tormenting me?” Henry asked.

“I don’t,” Adam said, and he was confused that Henry perceived all he did in such a way. “I am... rusty, I suppose. I can’t remember how to speak and act favorably.” It went unsaid but Henry knew. Adam only wanted to make him happy, content in the many conversations he wanted them to have. What a pity that the wretched soul did not know how. He was too far gone. “I’ll,” he said, thinking of a decent solution, “I’ll write the eulogies down. And you can read them if you like.”

“That’s very kind of you.” The simple compliment was Henry’s thanks for the effort. Adam was trying at least.

A hush set in with awkwardness gnawing gluttonously at its heels. Again Henry became aware that they had never been in the same room for so long before. Time sped quickly on, breaking even the record of their most lengthy phone call, and that, he remembered without fondness, had been more static breathing and silence than actual speech.

“Do you want to talk about Abraham?” Adam asked.

“Yes,” Henry said. “But also no, and certainly not with you.”

“I wonder then,” Adam remarked, “whom else you have in mind. You know, normal people don’t get so choked up talking about the loss of a ‘family friend’.”

Henry stood. “It was a mistake to come here. I thank you for the drink, but I- I think I will take my leave now."

“Deaths,” Adam said. He did not turn. He did not move to stop Henry. He spoke only to the freshly vacant chair. “Deaths and wives, sons, daughters, charades, the little lie that you’ve found comfort again... normality.” He chuckled, but there was no mirth, no amusement. There was hatred definitely. Perhaps for their curse or for himself. Possibly it was for any soul that had done him the disfavor of entering his life. “As with so many aspects of immortality, Henry, the first one is always the worst.”

“What would you know of loss?” Henry asked cruelly, intending to hurt as he was so hurt. “Do you feel anything anymore,” his voice choked to see the man that was his future, “anything?”

Silence.

His face was emotionless, relaxed brows and a straight line for his mouth. He poured himself another finger of scotch and drank it slowly. Henry thought for certain he was being ignored.

Adam put the glass back down. “I had a son,” he said, but it was spoken with such shame and secrecy, a guilty confession.

Henry scoffed. “I imagine you’ve had many.”

“Before I died,” he softly said. And Henry understood. He sat back down. “Like you, I made the... rather idiotic mistake of thinking I could return home after my first death. I thought I had been wrong. I thought... it was all a bad dream. My wife welcomed me. My son embraced me. Everything was well.” Adam eyed his empty glass. He needed more for courage, for endurance through speech. Henry poured it for him and he drank. “But there were witnesses to my death, you see. I was dragged from my home. Sorcery, they said, dark magic or the Devil.” He paused and Henry knew his thoughts. “Maybe they’re not wrong. But my wife, my young wife, stupid wife, she would not denounce me. So they accused her also. My son, well, he was fruit of the poisonous tree.”

Quiet spread like spilled ink, saturating all with black hopelessness. “What happened?” curiosity compelled Henry to ask. He felt he already knew.

“Burned alive,” Adam said, two words.

“And only you survived.” Henry thought he might be sick. He knew for certain there were tears welling in his eyes.

“Well,” Adam laughed, a sound made possible only through the relentless march of time and the apathy it afforded, “I didn’t really survive. Have you burned yet, Henry?”

Flames danced before his eyes until he could no longer see, fed on his skin until he could no longer feel nerve endings. There was heat and there was smoke. Then there was nothing but relief and cool water. He nodded.

“You never quite get used to burning,” Adam told him. “I’ve slit my throat before, shot myself in the head, upon realizing there was no escape from the fire.”

Henry knew avoidance when he saw it. He was himself a master. “What was your son’s name?” he asked.

“Isaia.”

Henry closed his eyes and learned the name, committing it to memory. “Isaia,” he repeated. When he opened his eyes again he saw that Adam’s had shut.

“Thank you,” he said, and there was a visible relief in him. “I’ve never told anyone about him. No one could understand. Only you, Henry.” The man knelt before him and took one hand in both of his. He rested his cheek upon the captured palm. Henry felt hot breath on his wrist. “Only you.”

“I’m so sorry,” Henry whispered. He did not embrace Adam, nor did he give soothing touches with his free hand. But neither did he pull away, walk away.

“It was millennia ago,” Adam reminded. “It’s not your fault.”

“No, but,” Henry exhaled, sorrow and contrition in one breath, “here I sit feeling sorry for myself and Abe. He died an old man and in his sleep. Your son he- he was just a boy!”

“And two thousand years ago I dealt with that reality,” Adam stated. There was something off about the way he said it. A growl spoke every word as he did but deeper, two voices existing simultaneously: the monster and the man.

Unprompted, unsummoned, unwanted images entered Henry’s mind. He saw a demon that slaughtered an entire village, killing one man and being killed by another, only to return reborn for further revenge.

“I didn’t tell you this to steal focus or belittle your pain. I just wanted you to know, Henry, that I understand it. There’s a part of me that remembers.”

He sat back away from Henry but kept his hand. Adam held such fascination towards him, always had since that initial moment of discovery. One hand of Henry’s meant so much to him, confirmation that he was not alone in the world. Perhaps Henry let him hold it, let him trace that inapplicable lifeline on his palm, because he too needed the proof. He craved it more in that moment than ever.

“You need some time,” Adam said. He was thinking. His eyes flicked back and forth with minute movements as he read the thoughts of his own mind, those forgotten dictations of humanity. “You’re not ready. I understand. I…” He nodded his head and stood. “I understand.” Adam sat back in his chair, one leg crossed so casually against the other. “If you would still enjoy the presence of company, we can talk, Henry. I’ll tell you of other children I have fathered and how it gets easier. Would you like that?”

He would not. The idea that Adam had moved on terrified Henry, depressed him. But the man was a fool to emotion, believing with his twisted mind that the trick of explaining his first son could be repeated with the same favorable result: distracting Henry from his pain. Maybe it would.

Henry said nothing. He made a slight movement of his hand, the muted signal for a charge of war.

“Very well,” Adam said. And he paused for a moment, remembering his own life. To him it was a tree that had grown tall with many branches at the top, hard to reach without climbing. He plucked the memory. “It was... twenty years before I remarried. Understand I still thought like a mortal then. Twenty years felt... forever.” There was a fondness on his face, but it was distant and tainted by sorrow. He felt the loss of time as strongly as any death. “We had a son, then a daughter.”

He narrated the lives of many children. Henry kept track at first but abandoned his count as it overtook one dozen. The notion that Adam could graduate from one family to the next sickened Henry. It was in its own way a cautionary tale that tainted the idea of any future children he might have. Worse was how Adam spoke of them. His love lessened with each. Too obvious was it that he cared more for the beginning few and most for the very first. Henry pitied all that came after.

A grandfather clock enforced the hour with all the gentleness of a banging drum. Age had stolen its subtlety. “It’s getting late,” Henry said, wiping at his eyes once more. They were so raw. Adam looked at the clock with surprise. Henry wondered if he had even noticed its chiming. “I should go.”

He stood and so did Adam. The man advanced upon his personal space, slowly, knowing very well that Henry would flee if he felt threatened. “You don’t need to go home,” he said so calmly. “Too many memories. Stay here for the night.”

Henry shook his head. “I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“When I saw the obituary, I made up my guest room,” Adam told him. “I insist.” He took another step. If the man’s body even conducted warmth anymore, if the ice water in his veins somehow generated heat, Henry felt it through the proximity, so close. “No one was there for me when my son died.” He placed his hand on Henry’s shoulder. Thumb and fingers pressed in like a soothing massage. “Let me help you, Henry. I will let you talk about Abraham as no other soul in this world could understand.”

It was the truthfulness of that statement that filled Henry with such despair. Abigail was gone. Abraham was gone. No one in a population of seven billion knew his secret, no one except Adam. Whom else could he so fondly tell of the way he had felt at Abraham’s first word, the first time he walked, the first time he climbed into bed during a storm?

“When he was three,” Henry said, and he grinned though his words were choked, “um, Abraham wanted a bicycle.” Adam smiled and led him back to his seat. “But bicycles for children weren’t such a wide commodity at that time. Not to mention we were not exceptionally wealthy as yet.”

The expectant guest room went unused. Adam made coffee and it spurred Henry’s words throughout the night. Sometimes he would cry and other times he would laugh at such happy memories he could not catch his breath. Adam waited patiently through all of his reactions, wearing sympathy or joviality to match. He made comments, asked questions, and that more than anything was what helped.

“He’s not completely gone,” Adam told the sunlit morning. “When everyone else is dead and no one can remember him, you will. You, Henry, give Abraham immortality.”

It was comfort in its most basic form. Henry accepted it greedily. “And should I ever actually die,” he said, “would you promise to remember him in my stead?”

“I could,” Adam said, “if you would return the favor to my boy.”

“You let me blather on all night,” Henry sighed. “I’m afraid I’ve heard precious little of him in between.”

“I don’t have much,” Adam admitted. “It has been over two thousand years after all. Even I forget.”

“I don’t want to,” Henry said, and he knew that he was pleading shamelessly to powers beyond him, begging that he may always keep every memory of Abraham where it was. “I don’t want to forget.”

“You?” Adam laughed. “No Henry, you are too great a father.”

**Author's Note:**

> I have a lot of feelings about Adam. He’s a villain yes, but I pity him greatly. I don’t think anyone is strong enough of spirit to be above what he is reduced to after 2000 years. And he was so alone. I think he fell in love with Henry the moment he found out about him. But he is, through years of losing his humanity, just really very bad at showing it. 
> 
> So I wrote an Adam that tries his best, wants to make Henry love him in return, goes through all the actions he thinks would be most welcome. But Henry is, beneath it all, still horrified of him. It’s a tragedy really, but I love this ship so much. I have no doubt that they would eventually get together. Henry can’t fight it forever. After so many people around him die, he would seek security in a partner that never would. Adam would be such a stable presence and he would accept him through desperation.
> 
> Yep. Just a happy little ship.
> 
> God, I’m such a sucker for immortals.


End file.
